WebNovels

Chapter 8 - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Three Choices, Three Futures

A year had passed since the black flames danced on Vaenyra's hand. A year since Sunfyre had hatched. For the children, it was an eternity of growth; for New Valyria, it was the beginning of a new era of quiet prosperity. The source of this prosperity lay not in ancient vaults or dragon legends, but in a wing of the fortress that smelled of sulfur, rare herbs, and, above all, controlled power.

Maeric Lhaerys's laboratory was the personification of its master: a fusion of precision and ambition. In the center of this entire operation, however, was not Maeric, but Serena Lhaerys.

With her silver hair tied in a severe bun and her violet eyes sparking, Serena moved through the laboratory with the authority of a general. While Maeric was the creative genius, Serena was the force that turned genius into profit.

"The Hogsmeade shipment is two hours late," she said, her voice sharp, without looking up from a thick ledger. "The intermediary claims difficulties. I think he's trying to raise the price."

Maeric, bent over a cauldron emitting a golden vapor, did not even look up. "Halve his fee on the next payment. He will remember the importance of punctuality."

"Already done," Serena replied with a thin smile, making a note with a raven-quill pen. She paused for a moment, observing the golden vapor of the "Dragon's Fury." "Production is stable. With this batch, we'll have enough funds to reinforce the valley's barriers for another decade."

"Good," Maeric murmured, finally straightening up to inspect the potion's color. He took a silver ladle, collected a small sample, and examined it against the light. "The consistency is perfect. Your control over the assistants has improved the quality."

Serena shrugged, a gesture that to anyone else would seem dismissive, but which Maeric recognized as a rare sign of satisfaction. "They learn quickly when the alternative is cleaning the dragon enclosures."

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled only by the gentle bubbling of the cauldrons. Maeric approached the bench where Serena was working, their shoulders almost touching in the confined space.

"I saw Vaenyra training earlier today," he said in a low voice, the tone of Lord Lhaerys replaced by that of a father. "She disarmed Rhaegor Vharanor three times."

Serena looked up from her book, and a glint of fierce pride appeared in her eyes. "He is older and stronger. But brute force is no match for her will."

"She has your will," Maeric said, and this time, it was not just an observation, but a compliment. He reached out and, in a surprisingly gentle gesture, brushed a stray lock of silver hair from Serena's bun and tucked it behind her ear. The touch was brief, almost imperceptible, but in a universe of two such controlled people, it was like a shout.

Serena did not pull away. For an instant, the hardness in her face softened. "And Daemyr has your brain," she replied, her voice a little softer. "He may spend his days playing with the dragon, but I see him in the library at night, reading your potions books. He learns by observing."

"He will need more than observation," Maeric sighed, the moment of tenderness passing as worry returned. "The world they are going to does not care for kindness or dreams. It only respects power."

"Then we will make them powerful," Serena said, her voice regaining its firmness. She closed the ledger with a soft thud. "You with your mind, I with my order. And they... they with the fire and the shadow they carry."

She placed her hand over his for a brief second, a gesture of solidarity and an unshakeable partnership. "We will prepare them, Maeric. For Durmstrang, or for whatever hell awaits. They are ours. They will not fail."

Maeric looked at her hand on his and nodded, the determination in his eyes mirroring hers. Their alliance was not just about business or power; it was forged in the fierce protection of their children and the future they would build together, one potion vial at a time.

While Maeric and Serena plotted their children's future amidst potion vapors and ledgers, the "unstoppable heir" in question was fighting a much more immediate and significantly less dignified battle.

In an isolated meadow high in the mountains, ten-year-old Daemyr Lhaerys was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"No, Sunfyre! Not my boot! The TARGET!"

Sunfyre, now the size of a large wolf and with an even larger personality, stopped with Daemyr's leather boot in his mouth, looking at him with outrageous innocence. He dropped the boot, which was covered in dragon saliva, and let out a chirp that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Daemyr, trying desperately to be the serious "dragon master" he read about in ancient tomes, took a deep breath. "Focus, Sunfyre! Focus!" he said, pointing to a series of wooden targets that Baelor had helped him set up.

Sunfyre, looking bored, turned his head toward Daemyr with a look that clearly said, "And why?"

"Because I said so," Daemyr said, striking an imposing posture he had practiced. He raised his hand and, with all the solemnity he could muster, commanded in High Valyrian: "Dracarys!"

He expected a precise jet of fire. What he got was a spasm, followed by a sound that seemed a cross between a hiccup and a sneeze. A wild fireball shot from Sunfyre's mouth, missing the targets by twenty yards and setting a wild berry bush on fire, which began to emit a black, stinking smoke. The dragon then looked at Daemyr, proud, as if expecting praise.

Daemyr gave up on fire. "Alright. Flight. Let's practice landing."

He ran to a large, flat rock, marking it clearly. "Here, Sunfyre! Land here! Please!"

The golden dragon took flight, his wings beating with growing strength. He circled the meadow, a vision of pure glory. Daemyr felt pride swell in his chest. *Maybe now...*

Sunfyre dived, aiming straight for the rock. Daemyr smiled. It was working! At the last second, however, the dragon seemed to notice something far more interesting. With a quick flap of his wings, he changed direction and landed with a clumsy thud atop the tallest pine tree in the clearing, swaying dangerously.

"Sunfyre!" Daemyr shouted, exasperated.

The dragon just chirped happily and began to pluck pinecones with his mouth, tossing them one by one in Daemyr's direction.

After ten minutes of pleading and dodging pinecones, Daemyr finally surrendered. "Alright, alright, you win! Time for food!"

That got the dragon's attention. With a leap that nearly broke the treetop, Sunfyre glided to the ground, landing with a thud that shook the earth, and trotted excitedly toward Daemyr.

Feeding time was its own kind of disaster. Daemyr took out a large piece of mutton. In his excitement, Sunfyre let out a jet of fire that was too strong, incinerating the meat into an inedible piece of charcoal. The dragon sniffed the result and let out a hiss of disgust.

"I told you," Daemy-r said, sighing. He took out another piece. This time, Sunfyre, trying to compensate, barely warmed the meat with a puff of hot smoke.

Finally, on the third try, they got it right. A quick, perfect jet that left the meat seared on the outside and rare on the inside. Sunfyre devoured his meal in seconds.

Despite the chaos, when the "training" was over, the true bond showed itself. Exhausted, Daemyr sat leaning against the rock, and Sunfyre, now satisfied and sleepy, nestled beside him, resting his heavy golden head on the boy's lap. The dragon let out a deep purr, a vibration that felt like a small earthquake and warmed Daemyr to his bones.

In that moment, there was no master and beast. There was just a boy and his dragon, two imperfect and stubborn beings bound by something far deeper than command and obedience. It was a bond forged in frustration, laughter, and absolute affection. And to Daemyr, that was more valuable than any perfect training session.

________________________________________

Night fell over the Carpathians, and with it, the immutable routine of dinner in the great hall of House Lhaerys.

In the European wizarding world, elite magical education was dominated by three legendary institutions. However, for the isolated community of New Valyria, sending a child to one of them was a monumental event, a decision fraught with political and cultural implications. To date, in nearly a century, only two people had received such an honor: Maeric Lhaerys, who had attended Durmstrang, and Rhaella Vharanor, Lord Kaelan's eldest daughter, who was in her penultimate year at Beauxbatons.

Maeric Lhaerys, as always, was the one to start the game. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and set down his goblet.

"Only a year remains," he began, his voice resonating with authority. "The letters will arrive soon. It is time we formalize our decision." He looked directly at Aelarion. "The choice is obvious. They will both go to Durmstrang."

The name hung in the air, heavy with weight.

"Durmstrang has the discipline and rigor they need," Maeric continued. "They value lineage and power. Vaenyra will learn to turn her... gift... into a controlled weapon. And Daemyr," he looked at his son, "will learn the hardness necessary to lead."

It was Lyra, Daemyr's mother, who answered first, her voice calm but with a thread of steel. "Your experience at Durmstrang was valuable, Maeric, I don't deny it. But it is not the only path." She adjusted her posture. "Beauxbatons, on the other hand, offers prestige and excellence. Look at young Rhaella Vharanor. She has flourished there."

Maeric let out an almost imperceptible snort. "Rhaella is proof of my argument, not yours. A Vharanor, from a line of masters of fire and combat, and she dedicates herself to healing magic. A healer! It is a waste of potential, encouraged by the soft philosophy of Beauxbatons."

The discussion about Rhaella was a known topic. The young woman was famous for her gentle nature and an extraordinary talent for healing magic.

"Rhaella's talent for healing is a gift, not a waste," Lyra retorted, defending the young woman. "And Lord Kaelan, as much as he won't admit it, knows its value. When Rhaella returns, she will be the first official healer of New Valyria. We will no longer need to depend on outsiders or risky journeys to seek medical help. The power and influence this will bring to House Vharanor within our community are immense. Beauxbatons taught her to refine this gift, not to abandon it."

The tension at the table was palpable. It was the clash of two worldviews: pragmatic power versus aristocratic influence and strategic self-sufficiency.

Finally, Aelarion, who had been watching the long discussion, spoke. His voice was soft, but it cut through the argument.

"Both are powerful schools," he conceded. "But our blood is different. Our destiny, as well." He turned to Daemyr. "Your dreams, my grandson. Have they shown you anything? Any glimpse of where your path may lead?"

Daemyr, caught by surprise, hesitated. "I... I see a castle," he admitted, his voice low. "With many towers, near a large, dark lake... in the mountains."

A silence fell over the table. The description, though vague, pointed unmistakably to Hogwarts.

Maeric frowned, clearly dissatisfied. "A child's dream cannot dictate the future of our House. Hogwarts is an unknown, famous for its pro-Muggle policies and its aversion to families like ours."

"Sometimes," Aelarion replied, his violet eyes shining with an ancient wisdom, "they are the only things that can."

Daemyr and Vaenyra remained silent, exchanging a quick glance.

"And there is one more," she said, looking at Maeric. "The Vharanor girl. Sylara. With the power she possesses, it is almost certain she will also receive a letter. Where would Kaelan send her?"

Maeric snorted, his disdain clear. "As far away as possible, I imagine. Despite his father's decree, Kaelan never accepted her."

The mention of the "old Lord Vharanor's" decree brought a heavy silence to the table. The story was a poorly healed wound in New Valyria. Daena Vharanor, the beloved eldest daughter of the old Lord, Kaelan's sister, had gotten involved with a foreign wizard and died tragically in childbirth.

"Daena's last wish was that her daughter would not suffer for her mistakes," Lyra said softly, the sadness of the story weighing on her voice.

"A wish her father honored," Aelarion added, his voice grave. "Before he died, the old Lord Vharanor used his authority as head of the House to legitimize his granddaughter. On paper, and by the magic of the old decrees, Sylara Vharanor is not a bastard."

"A piece of paper does not change the blood," Maeric retorted. "Kaelan may be forced to give her the name, but he cannot be forced to give her respect. He ignores her, and the girl lives like a shadow in her own home."

"A shadow with considerable power," Lyra pondered.

Serena, however, shook her head slowly, her violet eyes fixed on a distant point, as if seeing a memory.

"It is not her power that worries me," she said, her voice low and serious, capturing everyone's attention. "I do not know the girl. I have never interacted with her." She paused, and the silence in the room deepened. "But I saw her once, a few months ago, in the courtyard of House Vharanor. Alone. There was something... about her. A stillness. An intensity."

Her gaze met Maeric's, then Aelarion's. "She gave me a dangerous feeling."

The statement, coming from a woman as controlled and pragmatic as Serena, hung in the air with extraordinary weight. It was not a judgment on Sylara's lineage or magic, but an assessment of pure instinct.

As an unsettling silence fell over the table, Aelarion Lhaerys removed the pipe from his mouth. And, to everyone's surprise, a slow, mysterious smile formed on his lips.

But not a single word left his mouth.

More Chapters